


The Cerulean Room

by Somandalicious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mental Health Issues, Neighbors, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somandalicious/pseuds/Somandalicious
Summary: There is a big, beautiful world beyond the Cerulean Room, if only Draco Malfoy could find the courage to leave.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 70
Kudos: 138





	1. Part One

[](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

The walls of his flat were blue. Or, more precisely, cerulean. And terribly painted.

_He stood in the rain._

He appreciated the melancholic beauty of it because it reflected the innermost depths of his soul. 

Cerulean blue. Poorly administered. 

_He stood in the cold rain._

Rubbish. 

Draco Malfoy’s cheeks puffed as he blew out his frustration and rubbed his hands through his short, silverish hair, mussing it completely. It was as if he couldn’t write anything particularly eloquent and it was wearisome. Deciding to take a break, he grabbed the nearly empty pack of Viceroys and pushed back from the desk roughly, causing the chair to scrape across the chocolate hardwood flooring. As he perched himself against the jam of the French doors that were open to a small wrought iron balcony, he frowned at the dark, rumbling, tempestuous clouds above. They would open soon, and the precipitation would fall to earth, heavy and monotonous, to wash away the grime and sin of the city. 

He placed the cigarette between his lips and flicked his fingers to ignite it. Whilst taking that first deep pull, he noticed the gamboge cat skittering up the fire escape to the balcony across the narrow alley. Draco had been living in the extremely small flat for two years and had only recently noticed that cat. Still, he had yet to see two things: The new tenant across the alley who owned the pet, and how said pet entered its home. 

_He stood in the cold London rain and let it wash away the sins of his soul._

It was staring at him pretentiously, undeviating. Its body was set lazily on the mat, softly flipping its bushy tail with unflappable fortitude. "Yes, yes, you bastard, I know you'll wait there all day if the mood strikes you. No worries. I'll go, and you can keep your secrets," said Draco bemusedly. He took a last drag and flicked the butt into the abyss of the alley. "Good day, sir! Enjoy your cream." He peeled himself off the jam and turned into the Cerulean Room. When he glanced over his shoulder a moment later, the cat had disappeared. As if it had never existed in the world at all. 

_The filth and transgression of his stained soul was washed away by the cold London rain._

He let a satisfied smirk cross his face and hurried to his typewriter, and he began to punch the keys with his fingertips, watching with a supreme sense of achievement as they slammed against the tape, leaving perfectly fuzzy letters across the cut parchment. The thunder drummed in the heavens, and the rain began to beat a melody upon the roof that blended against the tempo of the typewriter into a perfect song that swallowed the hours. 

A disruption came later, after the storm had passed, and with the clapping of doors opening and raucous but girlish giggling. He broke immediately from his task, pinching the cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it in the over-full ashtray, confusion and curiosity bunching his brow. 

He heard muffled conversation that faded into ephemeral nothingness, then a haggard crescendo that ended in a slam and more mirthful laughter. 

Curiosity won over, and he leaned back on his old wooden chair, gripping the desk for purchase as the chair tipped back on two legs. He saw into a colorful room, and a large trunk that two female forms were collapsed upon, clutching themselves with silliness. One had ostentatiously flaming ginger hair, the other a chaos of burnt umber curls. 

It was a Weasley. And a Granger. 

His nose instinctively pulled up in a habitual sneer that he quickly relaxed into a furrowing inquisitiveness. 

"Tell me again why we didn't just sodding Levitate it?" That was the Weasley girl speaking, her tones husky and rich, bordering on bawdy. 

Granger rose chuckling and shrugged out of her taupe trench coat. "I told you, Mrs. Anderson in three is a Muggle and entirely nosy." She moved out of sight and Draco heard the sound of water running from the tap. 

He pushed farther back on the chair, daring its agility, and strained his neck. All he caught was a fleeting glimpse of a fit derriere before gravity and physics betrayed him by slamming his body against the chocolate floor. The slats of the chair broke his fall, surely to leave lilac bruises across his spine, badges of his foolishness. 

Worst yet was that from his periphery, he could see the Weasley girl guffawing ridiculously. But Granger was biting her lip, keeping her mirth at bay as she blinked those big mud eyes at him. 

Draco Malfoy's discomfiture stained his cheeks persimmon. 

\- - - 

There was a stranger in Draco’s flat. Somebody who didn’t quite belong. Someone who’s austere robes clashed against the meager surroundings. It was obvious he didn’t belong there. His large hands clutched his cane to his chest as his eyes swept the cerulean walls. He almost seemed claustrophobic, as if at any moment, the walls were going to cave in on him and he would explode. It was nearly deplorable to watch, and Draco would have surely pitied his father if the man wasn’t wearing such a disdainful sneer. One that was so disgusted, Draco could only find annoyance. 

“I do not understand why you have to be here rather than the Manor.” Lucius drawled, reproachfully eyeing the awful seascape that hung haphazardly above the bed. 

It was the same old song and dance. And every time Draco reminded his father of the reasons, stating his case with valid points and vehement arguments. Ones that wore Draco down and exhausted his emotions. With a sigh, he told his father yet again how he liked living simply, that he didn’t need much, and it suited him perfectly. It was secluded, quiet, and hidden from the world. He felt peace here. 

Lucius simply nodded, his mouth turned down grimly. “It’s quiet at the Manor.” 

Awkwardness stifled the air instantly, and Draco’s bridled grief threatened to break free. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, a nervous habit he had adopted over the recent years. With his lips pressed together and his argent eyes flickering everywhere except where his father was standing, Draco remained mum. There was nothing he could say to that. Not without opening old sutures and remembering things best left in the dark. Being empathetic with his father was something he couldn’t seem to do. To talk about the exact reason the manor held a silent atmosphere. 

They didn’t have the normal father-son relationship. They’d never bonded over chats about girls whilst playing a pick-up game of Quidditch or spent evenings playing exploding snap and listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network. Anything they had connected over was distorted by dark magic and Voldemort’s influence over Lucius. A dogma that Draco had successfully stripped himself of over the years, Lucius still refused to let go of it. If anything, he clung to it more. As if it was the only foundation he could find sturdy purchase upon. 

Of course, there had been a time when Draco had strived to earn Lucius’ approval and worked hard to follow in his footsteps. Part of him still wanted his father to accept him, and often he found himself seeking it, although he could not figure out exactly why he desired it. It was futile though, for Lucius didn’t approve of anything Draco had decided to do in his life. He thought his son misguided, lost, and was constantly trying to beckon him back home. Both figuratively and literally. 

Draco supposed loneliness and grief did that to a wizard. Lucius hid his desperation well, behind a mask of indifference and stoicism. Draco supposed that was about as similar as they could be. However, they both had different reasons and motivations. Draco knew his, but still didn’t understand his father’s. 

Lucius coughed. “That office is still vacant if you’d like to come back to work. Perhaps you could afford something more…” With a sour expression, he gestured airily to indicate the flat. “Luxurious.” 

“No. This is just fine. And I can afford it on my annuity from Mum.” As soon as the word slipped from his lips, he winced, instantly regretting it. When he peeked at his father, he found Lucius’ face drawn, his brows knitted together, his mouth in a mournful frown and his eyes dull with sadness. Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I—“ 

“No, no. It’s quite clear. You don’t need anything.” He withdrew his pocket watch and flicked it open. “I should be going anyway.” 

Draco stood and tentatively reached out to comfort his father, but hesitated. “I’m sorry.” 

Lucius’ lips thinned, and with a lingering glance, he nodded before he Apparated away. 

Draco growled in frustration. He was so stupid. Of course, he didn’t appreciate his father belittling his lifestyle, but he didn’t like seeing the pain of grief in his father’s eyes either. It was like a mirror. And Draco preferred to avoid mirrors of the soul. 

He kicked at his desk chair to emphasize his aggravation, grabbed the pack of Viceroys, and wrenched open the balcony door . 

To his surprise, he saw Harry Potter standing inside Granger’s flat, his robes and hair soaking wet. He was explaining something frantically to Granger as she sat upon her kitchen table. The way Potter’s hands were gesturing to his chest, hectically, and with great conviction, it was easy to decipher that whatever Potter’s dilemma was, it was one that crushed the heart. Then quite exhaustedly, the wizard crumpled into the proffered chair, his head collapsing into his hands. 

Draco felt no pity. For his woes far outweighed anything the Boy Hero could ever worry over. But Draco did feel a pang of jealousy as Granger slid from her perch and in a very sisterly way, pushed her hand soothingly through Potter’s hair before wrapping her thin arms around his shoulders. 

It was at that moment that Draco missed companionship, comfort, and the sympathy of someone who understood. 

Out of courtesy, he slunk back into the Cerulean Room, and closed his balcony door, giving Potter some privacy. 

\- - - 

She was calling in his dreams. Not to him exactly, but to someone, something. The lost. The missing. 

He stirred, not really wanting to awaken, but interested all the same. A warm body was snuggled against his torso. Soft, warm curves scented with flowers and the musk of sex. 

Carefully, he unwrapped her arm from his waist and laid it tenderly upon the mattress, his lids heavy with somnolence, his body sluggish with lethargy. 

Clumsily he sat up, blinking as he gazed around his Cerulean Room. Everything was cloaked in dreary grey and the kind of chill that caused one to snuggle deeper into the down comforter and wrap around a willing and pliant form. A door to the balcony was ajar, letting in the quiet spring morning. The patter of moisture accompanied the cool air and laziness, forecasting a day for getting nothing accomplished. To him, it was the perfect weather for writing. 

He rubbed his face, smoothing out the drowsiness, and then he stretched, curling out his wrists above his shoulders and pushing his chest out. He yawned. 

There was movement beside him, and he glanced down at the woman in his bed. Her face was hidden by her wheat colored hair, but he knew she slept on. 

"Crookshanks," sang a lovely voice, but it filled his room in worry and trepidation. 

There was an eerie pause that hummed in his ears; the tacit peacefulness was deafening and he suddenly wanted to do _something._ It was almost as if he felt foolish just sitting there while something precious and important was lost. He didn't know why it mattered. It wasn't his business nor his responsibility, but all that was irrelevant. He realized that it was probably too early to rise for the day, but for the first time, he had a reason. He wanted to be useful. Somehow. 

Hurriedly, he crossed the icy floor to his chest of drawers and withdrew some flannel pajama bottoms and a cotton vest, donning them quickly before padding to the French doors as he rubbed his bare arms to stimulate warmth. As he reached the ajar door, hesitation paused his hand. There was a lumping panic in his throat, burning a coil in his apprehensive gut. It came so quickly, as if waking abruptly from a dream. Reality engulfed him and it was raw and striking—reality was that she didn't like him. That he didn't like her. She didn't deserve his assistance. Though, try as he might, he couldn't let reality take from his interest in the scene before him. He wanted to see, to know. He wanted to watch. 

"Oh, Crooks. C'mon cat," the voice pleaded sweetly. 

He pushed the sheer magnolia curtain from the pane and peered through it, his lips parted with intrigue at what he found. 

Hermione Granger stood on her balcony amidst the misty drizzle, covered in a plum, satin night gown that reached mid-thigh and ragged puce dressing gown. Her feet were bare, and her hair was fastened at her nape but rested on her shoulder. In her hand she held a china saucer. Her brown eyes were large, searching the narrow alley. She tutted that universal sound that all felines seemed respondent to, but it was futile. The alley remained empty, soulless. 

She sucked in her plump bottom lip, releasing it slowly, her teeth grazing the supple flesh. 

"Crooks. Here cat. Here." When her watchfulness found nothing, she brought her tiny hand to her mouth, pressing it with signature worry, before letting it fall, her fingertips ghosting her chin, her neck, and then settling on her collarbone. It was like watching water drip from a leaf; slow, careful, and captivating. 

"Crookshanks." Her voice was sing-song. Echoing off the alley's structures, filling the early London morning with a haunting yearning. "Come home." 

A foreign emotion began to rise in his chest, constricting his soul and making him ache. He couldn't understand it, couldn't recall ever experiencing such intensity. The Cerulean Room faded until all he could see was her face. Her cheeks were rosy from the chill and eyes glittering with light and anticipation. 

He just couldn't look away; he was entranced, beguiled, bewitched, and it birthed a need deep within to call out to her, to comfort her. To find that blasted cat so he could witness the coming of her smile. 

Then from his periphery he saw a flash of marmalade, and instinctively his eyes darted to it. The large cat was sweeping up the wrought iron staircase, its tail straight, eager. 

"Oh ho ho," she said, but it was more of a throaty laughter, happy and loving. She swooped to set the saucer down, and to Draco's surprise, the cat completely ignored it in lieu of receiving loving nuzzles and scratches from his beloved human. "There is my handsome boy. Where have you been?" she asked as she rubbed behind his ears, before she kissed his face and clutched his body to her chest for a relieved snuggle. 

It was quite a moment to witness, and even more amazing was the bond between them. It transcended the standard of pet and owner. It was a friendship. A special relationship full of loyalty and adoration. 

It made Draco wish he had someone to miss him when he was gone, a special person to welcome him home. 

Glancing over his shoulder at the woman in his bed, he felt an astounding wrongness. It was heavy and cold, colored sloppily with cerulean and many shades of grey.


	2. Part Two

[ ](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were being crushed by an unseen hand and his chest felt so fucking tight. He was going to die. 

Just a few more steps and he’d be at his door. His long legs ate up the hardwood of the hallway. Had it always been this long? 

He fumbled with his wand and dropped it. 

Twice. 

Shite! Three times. 

Finally, he pushed through the door into the darkened flat. Using his back, he slammed the door shut and let his body slide the length as he gulped in a lungful of air and clutched his chest. 

With a sweep of his wand, Draco haplessly croaked a charm that illuminated the candles and opened the French doors. Immediately the room became warm and vibrant. 

_The bed. Desk. Chair. Typewriter. The fucking French doors._

_The swaddle of the leather around his feet. The wool of his jumper scratching warmly at his neck. The security of his fist on his sternum. The cool comfort of his wand._

_The monotony of the metronome. The annoyance of the drippy faucet. Cacophony of London._

_Rosemary. The nicotine pervaded cloak._

_The bitterness of dissipating fear._

He let loose a breath of relief but sat still, his head resting stiffly against the door. He wasn’t ready to move quite yet. 

However... he was safe. He was alive. He was all right. 

He swallowed thickly and felt suddenly exhausted. He wasn’t sure why he thought he could leave. Just pop down to the pub for a drink. _So fucking stupid._

Slowly, using the door for leverage, he stood on shaky legs and decided he was not ready to leave the support against his back. 

Suddenly laughter echoed around the alley and filled his room. The sound was so strange and unexpected that it startled him. Slowly he moved toward the balcony to investigate the noise. 

Muffled music underscored the chatter of laughter from Granger’s open doors. The scene was colorful. Around her kitchen table, six people sat, cards in their hands, smiles on their faces. 

Granger sat on the left, her bare legs tucked underneath her, hair gathered into a messy bun atop her head, and even from this distance, her face was rosy, her smile mirthful. She was talking to a woman with dark hair as she sorted the cards in her hands. Then Potter, who was sitting across from the dark-haired woman, said something and Granger threw her head back and laughed heartily. 

The sound was electric and bounced around the alley, falling around him and wrapping him in it. He was overcome with a sense of endearment, and he allowed his mouth to pull into a smile, but only barely. 

There was a small “Bbrrp'' that sounded from his feet, and there he found an orange fluffball of a cat sitting a few steps away, watching Granger and her friends’ merrymaking. 

Draco frowned at the animal. “May I help you?” 

The obstinate beast ignored him but lifted its left paw slightly and gave its gamboge coat a few licks before resuming its post. 

“Ever the diligent sentinel, eh?” Draco mused before bringing his attention back to Granger. 

He was aware that there were other familiar faces, but they didn’t matter to him. All he was interested in was Granger and the alluring spectacle she portrayed. The way her curls escaped their restraint and tickled her rosy cheeks. The easy way her happiness broke across her face. “She’s worth watching,” he murmured to the cat, the universe and even to himself. 

It was the truth. He wouldn’t deny it. He liked watching her. She was such a novelty and unlike anything he’d ever known. He had watched her at Hogwarts— _before_ —but that had been mostly because she was an antithesis to everything he’d been taught. Also, she’d been Potter’s friend, a spot he’d coveted early even though Potter had rebuffed Draco’s offer on that first day. He’d never seen her like this though. Happy. Free-spirited. Beautiful. 

That wasn’t entirely true; he’d been gobsmacked at the Yule Ball and spent more time watching her than paying attention to his date. 

Suddenly, Granger was giggling Ginny Weasley’s name repeatedly and was then laying down her cards, bobbing in her seat. Ron Weasley’s chair scraped sharply upon the floor as he shot up and mirthfully accused Granger and Ginny of cheating. 

Granger laughed heartily again, and Ron bent to grab her, tossing her into his arms with little effort and threatened to throw her out the window. Everyone was laughing and he clearly wasn’t serious, but something ugly rose within Draco. 

It was dark and the deepest crimson as it clawed aggressively at his gut. The monster howled to be released. 

Granger didn’t belong to him. Probably never would. But he didn’t want anyone else’s hands on her. Especially Ronald Weasley’s. 

Apparently, her cat agreed, because it was making its quick way across the alley to the fire escape that led to her wrought iron balcony. 

Without realizing he’d been clenching his fist, he stretched his fingers and reached in his pocket for the Viceroys. 

As he lit up, intent on polluting the demon purring in his ear, he was dismayed to see Potter clutching the waist of the dark-haired woman as he kissed her sweetly. 

What the sod was Pansy Parkinson doing there? 

Draco’s jealousy roared into betrayal, but more importantly, his loneliness yelped pitifully as he wished he could be a part of Granger’s world too. 

\- - - 

Her doors have been closed for three fucking days and that silly cat has been spending more time on his balcony that its own. It just sits there! Watching Draco while he tries to write something— _anything_ —worthwhile. 

Probably judging. Possibly plotting Draco’s murder. Perhaps collecting intel. 

He threw the cat a reproachful glare, his lips thinning whilst his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re an awful spy.” 

The damned thing merely blinked boredly. Just once and it may have been scathing. At least, it certainly felt caustic to Draco. 

So he sneered at it. 

The animal was not impressed, nor did it seem deterred. Even expressionless, the cat exuded stoicism. 

Draco returned the glare, leaning back and tucking his bottom lip under his teeth with thought. 

What was its blasted name? Something ridiculous, to be sure. Granger had been calling it out into the alley just the week before. Ah, yes. How could he have forgotten? The sweet song of her calling for the cat tormented his head. It _was_ an absurd name and Draco told the cat so. 

Crookshanks twitched his tail, and as though such a thing was possible, narrowed his eyes. 

It was definitely plotting Draco’s murder now. “How about some cream?” 

Crookshanks let his tongue curl around his chin. Draco took that as acquiescence. 

Once he procured a saucer filled to the brim with cream, he carefully returned to the French doors and paused. He _could_ set it on the balcony, but suddenly, Draco wanted the cat’s company. He wanted to welcome him into his home. He’d never been a fan of pets, especially cats, but something about This One allured him. 

Steadily, he settled the saucer on the chocolate hardwood floor, just a half meter into the room, and then he returned to his desk chair and waited. 

Crooks didn’t acknowledge the saucer. Instead, he kept starting at Draco. 

After a brief staring contest, in which Draco lost, he settled back into his desk chair and templed his fingers. "Do you know a better name than Crookshanks? Felix Leiter? He was James Bond’s best friend. Also, a spy—A CIA agent specifically. He was supposed to die in _Live and Let Die,_ but Fleming changed course and just had him endure a shark attack, thus losing his hand and a leg. You’re clearly intact, so maybe it isn’t a likely name for you. Still though, you are clearly a spy.” 

It was the most Draco had spoken to anyone in weeks—maybe even months. Even when Blaise Zabini came around for a visit, Draco had consented to being the Listener instead of the Sharer, and that had always suited him perfectly fine. 

Crookshanks—er Felix Leiter—had yet to accept the cream. 

Draco’s expression darkened, and his mood became embittered at the rejection. “It isn’t a bribe or poisoned, if you are concerned. Drink it or not, I shan’t be fussed.” 

He turned back to his work and began attempting a rhythm on the typewriter; however, it was stilted. His mood wasn’t on his work. Instead, it was on the infernal animal and the whereabouts of its gorgeous owner. 

The saucer did not go unattended, though, as its contents disappeared discreetly. 

Later, when Draco awoke in the middle of the night, there was a heaviness at his feet. Sitting up, he noticed Felix Leiter lay curled against Draco’s calves, tail spiraled into the coat of his belly and front paws curled over his flat face. The cat snored softly. 

Draco felt his mouth pull into the slightest of smiles, and as he rested back onto his pillow, felt the comfort of companionship. 

\- - - 

His typewriter was on fire, his heart and soul flowing through his fingers, past the keys and manifesting on the parchment in a beautiful stretch of black and ivory. His silver eyes were focused, and he curled his bottom lip under the tip of his tongue with determination. 

The late spring afternoon was alive and buzzing with the hustle and bustle of the city. Birds chirped and horns honked, and sporadically a stereo's bass would vibrate through the air. It all blended into a fierce energy that had his creativity beating and pulsing in his head and heart. He felt joy. He felt accomplishment. 

The air was fresh and warm, and Draco decided it was the ideal weather for his imagination to unravel like a ribbon. 

He had just finished a lengthy paragraph and settled back in his chair, raising his arms and entwining his fingers to rest on the crown of his head. It was pause for thought, and in it he heard a reverberating humming. 

It was soft and lovely, nearly polyphonic. 

Immediately he recognized the sound, the timbre of the voice. It could only belong to one, and it pulled at his curiosity, weaving into his mind like sateen ribbons that cradled and soothed. It had such a hold on his interest that he stood from his desk and moved slowly toward the wall that held the French doors. His actions were stealthy, because he didn't want to be seen. He didn't want to miss out on seeing her again. Every chance he got, he watched her, never tiring, always wondering, infinitely intrigued. It had been going on for months, and he had begun to acknowledge that it was becoming too obsessive, too voyeuristic. 

He should be ashamed of himself, but he couldn't find it within himself. He liked feeling wrong and convoluted. He liked having a secret. His greatest fear was her finding out and he didn't really want her to know he watched her. It would steal his thrill. Yet, sometimes, as he lay in bed, he wished she knew. He prayed that she wouldn't mind. Perhaps she would come over. Maybe she’d let him feel her. It was the fantasy of a pathetic man, and he knew it. 

He wondered what she would do if she knew, how she would react, and being a clever chap, he knew that the only way to answer his silent queries would be to show himself. To blatantly watch her. 

After all, she knew he lived here, and that his French doors were open, inviting her to play for him, which she often did. He considered, then, that maybe she wanted him to see her. To acknowledge her. Maybe she liked his attention. 

Without a second thought, he reached for his smokes and stepped into the sunshine. 

She was standing on a vermilion stool, wearing nearly nothing. A grey scrimmage t-shirt that bared her midriff and a pair of scandalously tiny shorts. He had never realized how long her hair was until that moment; it tickled her waist in a cascade of lawless surrender. Her profile was upturned but passive and beheld a slight smile that glowed in the golden sunshine. 

She was hanging laundry, her body stretched as she hung the material methodically on the pulley line. It was a mundane task but one that gave her body an attractive pose, and like any man on earth would, Draco Malfoy ogled. It wasn't a matter of attraction, or his secret intrigue; it was merely a man beholding a beautiful woman. And he had learned over these many weeks that Hermione Granger was a very pretty woman. 

As he lit his cigarette, his eyes carefully scoured every line and curve of her form, committing it to memory. As her chest pushed against the soft woven cotton of her shirt, he could see the swell of her breasts, the lovely roundness of them. And the way her stomach wasn't too flat, concave, but with a healthy roundness that curved into hips. Beautiful hips that sloped into a svelte, pert bottom. He grinned appreciatively, letting his smoke escape. It was quite a sight, and he momentarily wondered if she meant for him to see her this way. If she hoped. But what he knew of her, of her character, told him she wasn't usually so exposed, vulnerable, and she probably thought that nobody would see her so unadulterated. He felt gifted, blessed because he knew it was impossible for him to ever see it again. 

So he soaked it up, making a study of the way her absurdly long legs flexed and stretched. The synergy of it was amazing, like a special dance of natural beauty as she rose on the balls of her feet and relaxed them again. He knew that it was fodder for his imagination. Something to use as a medium for the more bawdy moments of his creativity. 

Then. 

She turned and was facing him. Quickly his gaze snapped up to hers, but he was not ashamed. He was fully prepared to answer for his unabashed and blatant staring. 

She stood akimbo, her fingers drumming on her hips and although her smile was bemused, her eyes were flashing with indignation. 

He merely smirked and flicked his cigarette. "Afternoon, Granger." 

She opened her pink mouth to respond, but he had already turned into the safety of the Cerulean Room. As he stood in front of his desk, his decision came to him in flashing red. 

It was a good afternoon for rearranging his meager furniture.


	3. Part Three

[ ](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

Granger’s balcony had begun to transform little by little. One day there was a potted plant and a bigger rug. Then more greenery and a small table. Now, there was a worn wicker chair that had a garish magenta cushion. She sat upon it and had her bare legs kicked over the arm, holding a book with one hand while the other twirled in her freed curls.

Draco was sure she was doing this on purpose. Ever since he’d moved his desk to face the alley, she had made a point of being visible every day. Sometimes it was just little things like calling for Crook—Felix Leiter or doing her laundry. She kept her doors open, and he could watch her whole world happen.

It appeared as if her life was bursting out of her flat, and Draco felt as though it was almost reaching for him gradually. Showing him a brighter, happier life. An ideal to covet and yearn for, a dream he had never imagined. 

His existence had been so bleak for so long that positive concepts such as joy and companionship were alien to him. Granger and her flat were all things bright and shiny and _wonderful._

He couldn’t help but be intrigued, and she was inviting him to get to know her. She hadn’t ever spoken to him, though, and he decided it was her turn to return the correspondence. 

She glanced over and their eyes caught. 

Immediately, Draco choked on air, and he felt a flush of golden warmth bloom from his chest and travel to his gut where it felt like feathers rustling until it settled into arousal. Thank fuck for the desk.

He panicked. There was no other explanation, but the burst of adrenaline forced him to begin shuffling papers in an effort to appear distracted, and thus he knocked over his tea. With a grimace, he shut his eyes and huffed exasperatedly through his nose. He was never nervous, especially around women, but she had him on edge. Mostly because he didn’t know what to do with her. She was a conundrum.

A giggle burst from her, and it’s magic worked up Draco’s spine. 

He froze and met her gaze again. 

“All right, Malfoy,” she inquired as she came to lean her forearms on the railing. 

He was tempted to glance around, as if a hundred other Malfoys were sharing his space and she could be speaking to any of those and not to him. Yet, he figured he already appeared to be enough of a knob and didn’t need to exhibit it further. 

His lips thinned and he gave her a short nod. 

“I’m well too, thanks for asking.” She quirked her mouth and her eyes sparkled with blitheness. 

She was making fun of him, he immediately decided, and he loathed being ridiculed. Albeit, she really hadn’t given him any indication that she was mocking his nerves, he just assumed that was the reason for her joy. Still, he couldn’t account for any other reason that she would be teasing him. She certainly wouldn’t be flirting with him. She didn’t even like him. Did she even _know_ him?

Shame and despair welled up inside of his gut like chaotic maelstrom of black and grey, and he did the only thing he could think. 

He stood. 

She straightened, and her pretty mouth turned down as her intense sepia eyes scored his body with excruciating slowness as he moved to the French doors. 

Her tongue peeked out to wet her rosebud of a mouth as she pulled her hair over her shoulder and twisted it nervously. 

And without taking his eyes from her, he pushed the doors shut. 

He was fully aware that he was indeed a prime idiot. 

\- - -

He didn’t open his doors for a week. The rouge of embarrassment was too heavy and pressed down on him until he nearly suffocated. 

It was more than torture, though. He could still hear her sing and hum. He felt the vibrations of her laughter. He could feel her _living._ Just there, beyond him. 

And because he had gotten a taste, he was going out of his mind with the vibrancy of need and the impatience of want. Time and again, he found himself reaching for the door knobs, only to recoil with determination. He was going to pull all of his hair out in frustration or pull his face off his skull if he didn’t just have one, miniscule glimpse of her. Still, he kept his resolve. 

He banged away at his typewriter with far more aggression than it deserved. He chain-smoked until his lungs ached and his throat burned. He paced the lines of the chocolate hardwood floor. 

Still, she beckoned him with her mere existence. 

He allowed himself to miss her, but even that brought on thoughts and emotions he had no interest in dissecting. However, that was all he was capable of doing; ruminating on the devastating intrigue she brought to his life. 

Hermione Granger was nothing more than an interest. A curiosity. Something strange to analyze in the side show. 

He didn’t know her. Not really. So how could he have feelings for her? He couldn’t. And hence, how could he miss her? He shouldn’t. 

And how could that even be possible when she was within reach? All he had to do was open the fucking doors. 

But then what? 

Would she just laugh at him again? 

Maybe she would, but what if she didn’t?

What if she just said hello and asked after him? 

All these questions littered his brain, and even when he tried to wash it all away with fire whiskey, he couldn’t escape them. 

He couldn’t recall feeling so lonely, though. He was cloaked in the dismal indigo of despondency all over again.

He decided he wanted to see her once more, to bask in the honeyed glow of her presence. He would ask her all the questions in his head, and although the vulnerability frightened him, he made a decision. 

He opened the French doors and offered his desolate soul to her. 

\- - -

“What are you writing?” She was sitting upon the magenta cushion of her wicker chair with her legs tucked under her. A floral printed sundress with thin straps that tied at her shoulders swathed her body, and her hair hung in twin Dutch braids on each side of her head. She held a mahogany ukulele that she had been strumming quite poorly. 

“What are you playing,” Draco returned. His eyes followed the grace of her fingers as she attempted to play the chords. 

She fought a grin as her gaze rose to his. “I asked you first.”

He nodded. He wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t, actually, because he didn’t know. He just let his fingers dance across the keys and hoped it would make sense. He beat his heart into those words, his entire soul and was writing his life. He found that he wasn’t capable of sharing that with anyone, yet. It would reveal too much and expose the parts of him that were too ugly for the world to see.

Besides, how would one even begin to explain that? He wasn’t ready to chase her away with his sins, not when he had finally discovered her. So, instead, he smirked. “ A story.”

A wide smile broke across her face and Draco thought it was the most beautiful moment he’d ever witnessed. All of her features lit up and she shined brighter than the sun that bathed her pretty skin. “Nice. In that case, I’m playing a song.” 

Hermione Granger had this adorable habit of biting her bottom lip. It was all things alluring. Cute. Sweet. Indelibly sensual. 

He had the inclination to attempt a leap across the alley to her balcony so that he could bite that perfect bottom lip himself and experience all that enticed him. 

He didn’t. Of course. 

Instead, he asked her precisely what kind of song she was playing. 

She narrowed her eyes and puckered her lips. It nearly undid Draco. After too long of a pause she finally answered him. “Sea of Love.”

Leaning back in his chair he lit up a smoke. He let his eyes travel from her mouth down the lines of her body. “Play for me,” he ordered, his voice thick with his attraction. 

And she did. 

\- - -

Draco was reclined in his desk chair with his fingers clasped at the crown of his head, his feet crossed on his desk. He was watching Hermione transfer one of her plants to a bigger pot as she told him about a book she was reading about Lily St. Cyr, a famous American burlesque dancer from the 60’s. 

He enjoyed these moments they shared. Mostly because he could blatantly watch her without any shame or guilt. He liked how she moved. It was easy, relaxed and natural. Like silk sliding across sand. 

The sun kissed her bare shoulders, and she had dirt smudged across her cheek. 

He decided never to tell her. 

Suddenly she stood and pulled off her gloves, only to drop them at her bare feet. Then, quite deliberately she raised both hands toward the sky and stretched. 

It was pure magic. 

The way her feet flexed to her tip-toes only to showcase her sweet peach of a bum. Her cropped, peach camisole rose, exposing the tiny indent of her navel.

Sweet Circe, her breasts were stupendous. Perfectly round and full. 

He imagined palming them as he licked up the pretty column of her neck to nip at her earlobe. He could practically feel their weight in his palm. 

Suddenly, her hands dropped to her hips, and Draco snapped out of his reverie.

She was looking at him expectantly. 

He had no clue what she said. She probably thought him a berk. 

“Uh...what?” He offered. He was a berk. A complete and total berk.

She grinned. “Would you like to come over for some tart?” 

He certainly would like a piece of her tart, but he suspected she wasn’t speaking in double entendres. 

He did consider it. Only because he often wondered how she smelled and if her skin was as soft as a petal. The mysteries that she offered for him to solve were always so sweetly on display, and yet he had never made a move to unravel them. 

The thought of him leaving his Cerulean Room seemed daunting, and he felt the tendrils of anxiety and panic begin to slither up his spine. 

He shivered and the sun fell behind a dark cloud. 

“Not today,” he told her as he rose to close the French Doors. 

\- - -

Blaise Zabini’s navy robes complemented the burnt sienna of his skin as he lounged his long frame on the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He was packing his pipe with some kind of herb that he bought from a muggle shop. He called it cannabis and said it made him feel relaxed and loose. He said everything became humorous, but that sometimes, with certain strains, he felt paranoid. So, he typically stuck to the indica. He called it Blueberry Yum Yum. But Draco thought it smelled like a skunk. 

“It was wild, mate. She just walked right up to me in the pub, ran her hand down my chest to my trousers and told me to take her back to my place. I had no idea who she was or where she had come from, but fuck, I did everything she asked that night.” 

Draco nodded along, but his focus was on the magnolia curtains of the French doors. He was tempted to tell Blaise about his good fortune. But decided he wasn’t ready to share Hermione Granger with anyone else. Especially Blaise. He was all things women desired. Tall, handsome, rich and suave. And a bit of a cunt, honestly, but a charming one. He didn’t really think that Blaise would go after a witch that Draco was interested in, not seriously. 

Still though, if he told Blaise about her, then it may destroy the magic.

Instead, he directed the conversation to something less interesting. Their mutual friends.

“Flint and Nott are at it again. Over a silly bird, if you’d ever believe it. And oh, yeah, Millicent is pregnant. Crabbe really ought to just marry her already…” On he went, running down all the news and drama of their mates. It was nice. Draco had missed Blaise. He missed all of them, but Blaise was the only one who made the priority to visit.

“You won’t believe who Pansy is dating!” Blaise exclaimed, sitting upright and glee sparkled in his umber eyes. 

“Potter?” Draco murmured. He had already seen with his own eyes. It had been jarring at first glance, but as he had time to consider it, coupled with the fact that he had more than attraction growing for Granger, he couldn’t begrudge Pansy a bit of happiness in her life. He would have probably discussed his feelings about Granger with Pansy. She’d be a sport about dissecting them and sorting it all out with him, but she hadn’t visited in months. 

“Fucking Potter. Cunt’s daft for her though, and she is happier than I’ve ever seen her.” Blaise leaned back again and took a long puff from his pipe. Then holding the smoke in his chest, said solemnly, “So that’s something, I guess.” 

“She deserves to be loved fully.” Draco tapped his fingers on his desk and turned his cheek toward the doors again. He wondered what Granger was doing.

“Sure wish we could go shooting on the back forty of your manor. Have some brews. Chase some skirt.” The emotion in Blaise’s tone was heavy and soaked the Cerulean Room in melancholia. 

Draco stared at his friend, studying his gestures and behavior, and for the first time probably ever, realized how sad Blaise was. He was clearly lost, and Draco’s chest tightened with guilt. “I know, mate.” 

There was nothing more he could say.

\- - -

It was the metronome crashing to the floor that jerked Draco out of his concentration. 

Crookshanks sat upon his desk and glared at Draco as though to say _What are you going to do about it?_

“What are you on about?” he growled at the pest. He even bared his teeth. 

Of course, Crookshanks merely goaded him further by simply flipping his tail. Although his ears twitched mischievously, and his amber eyes were wild and fat full of orneriness. 

Draco shook his head, pushed back from the desk, and bent to retrieve the metronome. 

When he straightened again, Crookshanks had clearly lost his mind. He was dashing around the desk, his paws spread and ears back while he scattered the neat stack of papers. His large body moved swiftly, spryly.

Draco stood quickly, letting the chair tip back onto its side. “Oy! Stop that!” Aghast, he reached for Crookshanks and plucked him away from his terror. “Whatser matter witchu at all?”

He held Crookshanks away from his body and turned him so he could glare at him menacingly.

Fearless and undeterred, Crookshanks wriggled and bit at Draco’s thumb, who promptly released the beastly thing, letting it land safely near his feet. Crookshanks took the opportunity to escape through the French doors and down the wrought iron steps. “Away with you, mongrel!”

Hermione came hurrying to her balcony, obviously summoned by the hullabaloo that Crookshanks’ shenanigans caused. “All right, Malfoy?”

His mouth curled up in a sneer. “Not at all. Keep Felix Leiter on his side of the alley!”

Her nose crinkled and a lopsided grin pulled at her pretty face. “Felix Leiter?”

Draco grimaced at her obtuseness. “That infernal creature you call a pet. Look what he’s done!” He sneered, gesturing at the mess of papers that scattered not only the desk but the floor too.

“Crookshanks?”

Draco’s anger was reaching epic levels. It would take all day to sort his papers. All that hard work and organization just trashed. And now Granger was acting like Draco was the cunt. “Keep that beast away from me.”

She was attempting not to giggle aloud, but her mirth radiated from her very being. “Did you call him Felix Leiter?”

“You send him here to spy on me. I found him tolerable until he clearly decided to sabotage my work.” Draco’s jaw flexed as a new thought occurred to him. He pierced his glare toward her again. “Was that at your bidding? Did you contract him to spy on me?”

This time, Hermione let her laughter fly out into the alley. She laughed so hard and so loud that she clutched at her stomach and the sound bounced along the bricks and down Draco’s spine. Her laughter wrapped him up in purple velvet and the heat of it burst in his chest and gut. It also called the attention to other parts of his anatomy that had no business being awake when Draco was so livid. 

Without further ado, Draco clenched his fist, spun on his heels, and found refuge in the loo. He thought about Hermione Granger’s mouth and how he’d like to shove his cock in it to shut her up. He came in three seconds.


	4. Part Four

[ ](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

Draco's hands clenched the opening of his trousers, and he blinked repeatedly, uselessly, as he tried to process the deluge of emotions that pounded over him when he exited the lavatory. There was shock, confusion, disbelief, and a whisper of embarrassment. Only because after days of not seeing her, the object of his fascination stood on his balcony, the sunshine illuminating her form like a vibrant aura. Her hair was down again, and he could see the many facets of brown sparkling in the light. She was modestly dressed in a pair of baby-blue denim trousers that bore a hole in the knee and a screened t-shirt the color of dandelions that she had knotted above her belly button. In her palms, she held a tart. She smiled sweetly, and it rolled over him in waves of radiance. Then she lifted her hand and made a jerking gesture of greeting. "Hi."

"What are you doing here?" he croaked, unable to disguise his surprise.

"Just being neighborly." Her brows swept together, and she eyed him warily. "Although you should fasten your trousers, Malfoy, this visit isn't _that_ social."

Humiliation burned at his cheeks and his hands flew to fumble with his buckle and, looking away from her, he quickly secured his belt. Once he was properly put together, he raised his eyes to hers again and gulped. The tension thickened cumbersomely. He didn't know what to do with himself. It was all so confusing, unexpected. He knew it was his turn to speak, but out of all the words in his repertoire, he couldn't remember one to use. It was as if he'd never learned dialogue and language. Like he didn't understand English. He just felt so lost. 

"You could invite me in. _That_ would be the polite thing to do." Her grin deepened with cheerfulness.

His inclination was to do exactly that, but then there was a hesitation. She already filled up the alley and his head, and if he let her into the Cerulean Room, she would fill it up and it would never be the same.

It was a pivotal moment. He couldn’t deny that. Everything was about to change. He just had to choose. Make a decision. 

"Yeah. Yeah." He waved her inside as he self-consciously patted down his hair and she promptly moved forward, spryly like lightning. Her energy was so static and popping, and he swore his ears were deafened by the buzz of her eagerness.

She moved past his desk and glanced around studiously. "It's nice."

"Thank you." He clutched his stomach nervously, nearing her cautiously, watchful.

"Small." It was an observation, not an opinion. Her gaze wandered along his crumpled charcoal duvet until she arrived at the wall and cocked her head to study the terrible artwork above his bed.

"Yes." He eyed her auspiciously, lips tightening with chagrin. It was a hideous painting. A bleak swath of black, grey, vermillion, and orange. He liked it though. It matched those parts of him that nobody really liked.

"Preferably?" Hermione glanced at him side-long then, genuinely interested.

"Quite." He tried the swallow the lump of nerves that settled in his esophagus to no avail. 

"Hmm.” She bit her lip and sucked in the corner as she perused the room. “It's blue."

“Cerulean," he corrected, his lips thinning and his brows knitting together with inexplicable annoyance. He liked when colors were aptly named and thus properly labeled so when someone misjudged them, he found he couldn’t help but chastise them.

She grinned widely, understanding blooming in her great brown eyes. "Yes." And she pivoted toward his kitchen, her undulant curls fanning with her twirl.

He moved behind her and straightened the frame, then stepped back to judge, to be sure that it was accurately placed, but all he could think was that his palms felt too sweaty and he didn’t know how to breath because she was filling up his space with her delightful noise and the welcoming scent of that damned blackberry tart. 

“Mind if I get plates and cutlery?” 

He gave her a curt nod, not really listening to what she asked, but then he heard the opening of cabinets. Quickly he spun around, panic and aggravation blurring the Cerulean Room momentarily. He only saw her _touching_ all of his things. It was more than an invasion of his privacy. She was feeling his life, the most important objects in his universe, no matter if it was only the cabinetry. It was nearly unbearable, and every caress of her fingertips scored his soul. It made him uncomfortable. Vulnerable.

His breathing halted and his chest constricted, dread consumed him in a black and chaotic maelstrom. He was choking on his vocabulary, unable to articulate his wishes, his desire—no, his _demand_ that she not touch his things.

The dam burst open and he stormed towards her, shoving her away from the counter and slamming the drawer shut with a loud bang, "You can't just come into a person's home and rifle through his things!" he roared at her.

Her eyes were large, round and aghast. "Wow. Calm down."

"This is my stuff," he sniffed disdainfully, selfishly.

"I had your permission!" Her hands were on her hips again, and her pretty, brown eyes flashed with exasperation.

"Granger," he growled through clenched teeth.

"Oh, I see, it is confidential.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on him. "Are you hiding a body part in there?”

"What?” This witch was completely delusional, he thought, affronted. “No!”

"Hmm. So, you aren’t a serial killer?" He realized that she was trying to keep her voice passive, but there on her visage, it was very evident, she was joking with him, nearly flirting. He should have known she wasn’t barmy enough to invite herself into the home of someone she supposed was a sociopath.

He began to chew on the corner of his lip as he contemplated his response. It wasn’t that he didn’t want return her flirtations. But as his argentous gaze flickered over her with contemplation, he decided that he liked that she had come to visit. He knew in that moment that despite the fact she touched all of his things, he wanted her to come back again. So, he let himself relax and offered her his most signature smirk. “As if I’d admit that to you."

She was taken aback, and instantly her defenses relaxed and she seemed to shrink. Her countenance lightened, becoming suddenly very intrigued. With a half grin she stepped forward. “Oh? Do serial killers eat tart with their fingers?”

He felt the tension leave his shoulders and found that he liked her sense of humor. “Forks are in the drawer behind you.”

The smile that spread her face was made of sunshine, and she gave him a little quirk of her shoulders before she spun to retrieve the utensils.

She handed him one and immediately stuck her fork into the tart and took a big bite. Draco was instantly mesmerized, as always. The way her sweet mouth closed around the fork and her lashes fluttered to her cheeks. She fucking moaned.

“Merlin, Granger, what is in this tart?” he asked, a grin spreading his face.

She covered her mouth and giggled around her mouthful. After swallowing she smirked, “The hearts of my enemies.”

Draco stared at her wide eyed, in utter awe of her, before he huffed a laugh and dug his fork in. “Shite.”

The oddest sensation crept along his heart because he knew, without a doubt, he just fell into something amazing. 

\- - -

It happened suddenly, yet somehow Draco could hardly remember the time before Hermione was a refreshing constant in his life. It was as though she had just always been there. Lounging across his bed, her curls fanned out, and her knees crossed. That pretty foot bouncing in the air whilst she held a book above her face. 

He let his attention wander the line of her gams up to the curve of her rear where it impressed into his mattress. His cock was fully attentive, and he wanted to stalk over to his bed, climb over her and press himself into her until she screamed his name. Instead, he used what was left of his will power to palm down his interest discreetly beneath the desk. 

“Am I distracting you, Draco?” Her voice was husky from disuse, but she didn’t glance his way. 

She _was_ distracting him, but in all the best ways. He didn’t answer her; there was no point. She already knew.

Gracefully, she dropped her arms, setting the book aside before rolling to her stomach and peering curiously at him. She bit her fucking lip. “What are you writing?”

He didn’t look away from her mouth. He couldn’t because he wasn't ready and he knew that if he did, he’d tell her everything he knew in the world. It would scare her away. However, he knew that if he didn’t tell her _something,_ she’d never stop pestering. He didn’t know why it was so important to her anyway.

Draco chewed the corner of his cheek while he considered how much to reveal. 

“Is it fiction?” she prodded.

He made the mistake of meeting her eyes with his own. They were exactly as he expected. Large and sepia. Decidedly earnest and bottomless with affection. It was his undoing and he feared it would always be that way. He swallowed thickly, “It’s about an agent and all his adventures.”

She settled her chin on her palm, those dainty fingers curled against her cheek. “Tell me about him.”

So he did. He told her that the agent wasn’t a good man, but he became a spy to atone for the sins of his youth. The agent was good at his job, and soon the atonement became a responsibility that the spy swore to uphold. What he didn’t tell her was that even with all the things the agent has done, it would never be enough. 

\- - -

Hermione stood on his balcony with a chartreuse suitcase clutched in her fist and an armful of large folders pressed into her hip. A zing of adrenaline ran up Draco’s spine.

It had little to do with the short, gauzy, bone colored sundress she wore, or the way her chestnut curls tumbled about her shoulders in a roguish disarray. All those things he noticed, but what really struck him was the excitement that was bursting from her eyes. It was a palpable, breathing _thing_ that lit up his heart in burst of ignited gunpowder and light. 

“Do you like music, Draco?” She pressed her lips together and her eyebrows rose up. He realized that she had a piece of herself she wished to share with him. Her enthusiasm was pulsing and contagious, but there was an undercurrent of apprehension that held her rooted to the spot. Someone, —somewhere, had rebuffed this part of her, and it had crushed her.

With a cheeky smirk gracing his face he moved to invite her into the Cerulean Room. “Of course, doesn’t everyone?” 

She sighed in relief, and as she moved past him, he reached for the folders, which were heavier than he expected and had colorful images on them. “What are these?”

“Vinyl Records,” she told him as she set the suitcase on his bed. She opened it to reveal a red circle with a pin in the center and an odd, angled bar next to three knobs. Draco was immediately intrigued and joined her to get a better look. “And this is a turntable, a portable one. It plays the records.” She took the folders from him, “Let me show you!”

As she spread all the records out across the duvet, Draco watched studiously, intrigue bubbling up inside him like a sapphire fizz. Then she straightened and took a step back, only to collide with Draco’s chest. Instinctively, his hands reached up to clasp her shoulders. Both instantly stilled as time and space seemed to stretch more slowly than ever before. She smelled of bergamot, sunny, sweet and citrusy, and as it swirled around him, overwhelming his senses, the only anchor was her smooth skin branding his palms. His breath was stalled in his throat, and her body against the length of his made his head dizzy. 

It was a matter of seconds before she moved away, letting a half laugh escape. Gesturing to the records, she told him to pick one, but Draco was hesitant to look away from her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze and nervously shifted the records around on the bed, absently tucking an errant curl behind her ear. Finally, he reached down and picked up the album closest to him. It had a man’s face with a pair of black sunglasses that showed the reflection of a woman dancing. 

“Oh, this is a good one,” Hermione exclaimed as she took it from him. From the sleeve, she withdrew a large, onyx disc with circular groves cut into the surface. She placed it on the red circle of the turntable and moved the bar over to drop it onto the disc.

A man’s voice began to count from one and then a piano began. He then chanted a strange phrase and Hermione started bobbing her head and swaying her shoulders. Draco could only watch, bewildered. Entranced. Fascinated. Especially when she began to move her entire body, enhancing the curve of her hips. The man sang that the woman was castin’ a spell on him, and when he accepted Hermione’s proffered palm, asking Draco to dance with her, he decided that he could relate to the singer. Hermione Granger had most assuredly bewitched him.

They moved together rather well, although Draco was a bit stiff at first. But then she pushed away from him, her hair fanning around her, the skirt of her short dress wrapping around her hips and showing a good bit of her thighs. Draco grinned to match hers, and they both fell into a rhythm. 

It was the most fun he’d had in a long time, especially since he’d never enjoyed dancing so much. And he was so caught up in the moment that when she spun out again and he tugged her back, she crashed into his chest.

It was the catalyst. She felt so right in his arms; her breathing was deep from exertion, but her smile was captivating, and her startling sable eyes sparkled with joy. He felt his head lower instinctively, and just as he was about to kiss her, she cleared her throat and stepped away from him. 

The rush of cold was startling, and a pang of rejection slithered into his chest. But when she turned to him with another album as though nothing had happened and said it was her favorite, he forgave all that could have been but clearly wasn’t meant to be.

\- - -

When his father turned up again, Draco decided that he ought to put up anti-apparation wards. It wasn’t that he had no wish to see his father, it was just that it was too much effort and was always awkward. It was exhausting.

Lucius would never understand Draco. He wanted him to follow his footsteps, and Draco wanted something else entirely. They were at a stalemate, really, and had been for years. Around and around they went with no clear resolution in sight. 

Still, Lucius seemed determined, and Draco had to admire that.

“I think it is time to come back and put this foolishness behind you.” Lucius clutched his cane to his chest, but his nose rose with authority and the intention of intimidation.

Draco’s mouth thinned as he set the tea cup and saucer on the desk for his father.

Crossing his arms, Draco moved to stand at the threshhold of the French doors.

Hermione was dancing around her kitchen while she cooked; her ponytail flopped around her shoulders, and the coral apron she wore was hideous. Crookshanks was weaving in and out of her bare legs hoping for droppings or chin-scritches. To Draco, the scene was alluring and beautiful. “There is nothing for me at the Manor.”

Lucius watched her for a while before looking at Draco. Understanding filled his face. He cleared his throat and said, “You are looking more well.”

Draco didn’t want to give anything away. He didn’t want his father to know _they_ were becoming closer. That somehow, she was important to Draco. That in the span of a blink he went from just wanting to fuck her to wanting to stare into her eyes while she explained the plot of her book and why the author was ingenious. How he awoke each morning to hear the clarity her laughter brought to him. How he was afraid that she was becoming more and more _right_ feeling. “She’s just a neighbor.”

He realized too late, however, that statement gave Lucius all he wanted to know. Resignation darkened Lucius’ face as he stood and came to stand beside Draco. “I’m afraid. That’s all. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Draco glanced at his father sharply, and for the first time, he could clearly see his vulnerability. Lucius’s heart was wide open, and it was such a rare sight, that it left Draco speechless with awe. He felt tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and Draco opened his mouth to tell his father something — what? He didn’t really know. He just wanted to comfort him. His chin dropped to his chest and he stared at his hands as he anxiously twisted them together. He was useless. He never learned how to comfort the older man. He felt like he ought to let Lucius know that he cared for him, but there was too much static between them. A vast trench of anger and despair. An ugly open wound. 

Perhaps there were no sutures strong enough to repair it.


	5. Part Five

[ ](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

He thought it was a hallucination. A vibrant manifestation of comfort brought on by the screaming chaos that was his distress. Sure, it wasn’t at all logical, but he found it sensical and comforting. How else could he explain how Hermione Granger appeared on his balcony, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with concern?

She felt so real, though. As she crouched in front of him and pushed her hand through his hair before cupping his face and tilting it towards hers. He had screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze. Because he couldn’t stand to see her worry, her blinding saffron need to right all the wrongs in the world. 

He had been so confident, initially. He had meticulously planned out every step and in his minds eye, it had been perfect if not completely melodramatic. 

He would cross the alley in a flourish, using a charm to help him leap from his balcony to hers. He would knock with all the enthusiasm that burned a hot, electric orange in his chest. She would throw open her doors and he would tell her how he felt about her. That he liked her and was attracted to her—immensely. That he thought she was funny and beautiful. She was completely the neatest witch he’d ever met and then he would ask her if he could kiss her—no. He’d just kiss her. Softly and sweetly. 

Again, no. He’d ask her. Because he respected her and he knew that she needed to know that, but sweet Circe, he’d really like to kiss her.

Only it didn’t happen like that at all. He couldn’t even find the will to cross the threshold of the French Doors. 

He could only stand there, wavering on the cusp of all his dreams coming true and yet his willpower had failed him. He was like a stone slipped back into a pocket for safe keeping, never to be skipped across the current of the river.

The panic came and drenched him in the taupe slime of fear and apprehension. He had trouble breathing and eventually the weight of it all had made his knees so weak that he fell upon them. 

Self-loathing and shame rode his back as he crawled to his bed and he clutched at the charcoal duvet as he tried to calm his panic. His usual tools and tricks seemed too far out of reach for his mind to grasp albeit he wretchedly reached for them mentally.

He was a fool for ever thinking that he stood a chance with the likes of Hermione Granger. For thinking that she would want him. He couldn’t even leave the Cerulean Room for fuck’s sake. How would she be interested in someone who was that sort of pitiful?

Yet, there she was kneeling before him as she implored him to tell her what happened. 

But how could he tell her that he was a failure. He just couldn’t.

But then she was sweetly shushing him and pressing her cool palms to his forehead and cheeks. He opened his eyes and found hers, wide open and the deepest sepia he’d ever seen. But with brows drawn in concern, she told him that he was all right. He was safe. 

His hands found her waist and he clutched at her desperately. She scooted toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I’m here with you, Draco. You’re not alone,” she told him softly.

He could only burrow his face into the crook of her neck and apologize over and over again for all manner of his sins.

And although he couldn’t tell her how he felt, he no longer felt alone. He felt understood. 

\- - -

Hermione Granger was trying to kill Draco Malfoy. That was the only plausible explanation for her wearing those impossibly short shorts. She had to know the effect she had on him. She felt his lascivious stare, did she not? He wasn’t cryptic about it; in fact, he thought himself rather blatant. 

He decided that was exactly what she was trying to do. It must be some elaborate plot in which she enlisted her blasted pet to spy and find out all of Draco’s inner workings—especially his weakness. Which included her beautifully shapely legs, her perfectly delicious breasts, and her shamelessly sexy mouth. 

She was currently wielding all her charms get him to go out for coffee and to the bookstore. An excursion, she told him, that he would immensely enjoy.

She came and perched on his desk, careful not to disturb his stack of papers. Draco slumped back in his chair and glared at her. 

She wasn’t deterred. She was pleading her case emphatically, with elaborate hand gestures and all. Draco’s gaze slid from her big sepia eyes to her lips. 

Granger’s mouth moved quite prettily. Sporadically, she would scrape her teeth across the expanse of her bottom lip before moving on with her agenda. It was quite enchanting.

Draco leaned forward and focused on her legs. They were incredibly long, and well-formed and lightly tanned. He wondered what her skin felt like, and for the first time since she had comforted him, allowed himself to touch her. 

Using his knuckle, he tapped her ankle before moving a single finger slowly along her calf.

She stopped speaking, but he didn’t really plan on acknowledging it. Her skin was soft as a rose petal, as he’d suspected, and he had every intention of committing it to memory. 

When he reached her knee, he drew his fingertip around to the inside of her thigh and began to follow the line towards her apex. He swore he could smell her, sweet and heady. 

As he reached the line of her shorts, he glanced up at her. She was breathing deeply. Her breasts pressed tautly against the fabric of her camisole, and her decolletage and cheeks were flushed a pretty pink color. Her pupils were blown as she watched the careful advance of his finger.

But then she sucked in her bottom lip and Draco fucking lost it.

Abruptly he stood, his arm wrapping around her waist to secure her to him while his other hand grasped her sweet throat, but he did not squeeze, instead he took her mouth so ferociously that he couldn’t tell where her breath began and his ended. She was so eager, her hands clutching at his t-shirt, her honeyed tongue licking into his mouth. 

He was on fire; lust soaked his spine. He lost sense of time, and space—everything except Hermione Granger.

He thumbed her nipple through her shirt, and she mewed in response, shivering in his arms. It was delightfully intoxicating. He wanted more of her. More of her sweetness and the inferno that was feathering at his gut.

He stepped back and spun her around. while his feet kicked her legs apart, her palms slammed to the table and she squeaked his name.

He took that as permission and yanked down her shorts, along with her knickers.

She watched him over her shoulder as he unbuckled his trousers and withdrew himself. He gave his length two slow strokes before using his blunt head to spread her slit. Slowly and deliberately he drew himself along her seam.

Circe, she was hot and sticky and so fucking inviting, she whimpered and pressed back on him. “Please,” she whispered. 

He obliged by flexing his knees and thrusting to the hilt. Merlin forsaken him for it felt like he had come home and the thought had him expelling a shocked breath. She was bliss, and he had to take a moment to gather himself. But she didn’t allow it. She wriggled in his grasp and he clenched his teeth. Thrusting again.

It was too perfect. Too _right_. As he moved within her he thought that perhaps she was made for him. So warm and snug. He wouldn’t stop. Not for all the magic or Galleons this universe had to offer.

His hands clutched eagerly at her waist, surely leaving marks, as he pistoned within her. He was frantic and obsessed. A certified mad-man. Maniacal and lost to his instincts. She flexed on her tip-toes and arched her back to give him encouragement and it was sublime.

“Too fucking good,” he murmured. It was, and he slid his palm under her shirt to feel the optimal weight of her breast, using his thumb to brush the pebble of her nipple. 

Hermione sucked in sharp breath and dropped her head. “I’m-I’m...” 

Draco was grateful, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, although he never wanted to lose this sensation. “Yesss,” he growled in her ear and nipped her lobe. “Give it to me.”

She began to tremble, and her movements became jerky. Draco wrapped both arms around her and dropped his mouth to where her shoulder met her neck and he bit down, intent to leave his mark and refusing to relent his attentions. He needed her to burst into the clear azure nirvana that was his lust.

When she exploded, it was more than he could ever imagine. Her entire body tightened, she threw her head back and the sound that tore from her throat was deep and soulful. It settled around him as he dropped his forehead to her nape and before he could stop himself he thrust one last time and emptied himself deep within her.

There was a light sheen of sweat on her skin giving it a pearly appearance. He felt inexplicable and ravaged, yet so fulfilled and free. He felt all of her and the affection of it was bursting to push through his bones. Taking his knuckle, Draco let it slide the length of her spine.

“Don’t do that,” Hermione whispered. Her body was still expanding and contracting in his arms as she fought to catch her breath.

Draco’s brows furrowed and he loosened his hold before he withdrew completely. He could feel the cruel, cold whispers of rejection and self-doubt slithering about in his brain and he felt adrift.

As he tucked himself in, he watched her shakily reach for her shorts and pull them up her legs. She refused to meet his gaze as she righted herself.

When she finally turned to him, her large eyes were impossibly round and her red mouth was set in a pout. Damp curls clung to her hairline. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly.

Draco felt his heart shatter. He stepped back again and again, until his legs hit the bed and he dropped to it. “Regret it do you?” He gave her his most sinister sneer. 

“I crossed a line. It isn’t right.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

And before he could ask her what the sod she was on about, she fled from the Cerulean Room.

\- - - 

Her doors were shut for too long, and it rained heavily the entire time. The Cerulean Room was swathed in dreariness but it suited Draco’s mood. He was exceedingly morose.

He shouldn’t have even kissed her. He hadn’t even tried to seduce her. He had just pounced on her like a man starved. Perhaps he was. There had been no finesse or skill. He had been animalistic. A monster.

He’d frightened her away, of that he was entirely certain.

Draco huffed out a ragged breath that rounded his cheeks and patted down his hair. He didn’t know how to fix it. He sent her a few owls, but they had returned untouched. He had sought Blaise’s advice, but that too went unanswered.

He was at a complete loss.

A few times, he had stood at the threshold of the French doors and contemplated crossing the alley and demanding that she hear him out. And he imagined waiting there for her, in the vibrancy of her home. He wanted to go there, be there, feel her again.

For being with Hermione Granger, in all capacities, was the best time he ever had and now that he had a taste of her so intimately, well, it only confirmed that his interest in her wasn’t simply a passing fancy. He would never have enough of her, that was becoming clearer with every passing moment. In the ones he didn’t share with her, it was very apparent.

He was sorry, of course, for ravishing her and for the way he behaved after. It had been poor form. He hadn’t even verbally expressed his interest in her before he took her. And then when she had told him it was a mistake…Circe, he had been utterly devastated. Still, he couldn’t make his feet move out of the Cerulean Room to Hermione’s flat. Memories of all of the times he had tried to escape before stalled any progress.

Finally, he glimpsed Felix Leiter laying on the magenta cushion of the wicker chair, and Draco expressed his desire to apologize. He just needed a chance. He implored the cat to carry the message to his mistress.

It seemed the cat ignored him, but when Draco checked her balcony, there wasn’t a trace of him anywhere.

\- - -

“I’m having a party,” Hermione told him from her chair as she used her fingers to weave a cord. She was wearing joggers and a loose t-shirt, but if she thought she was deterring Draco’s attraction, she was sorely mistaken. If anything, it made him want to cuddle into her while she read to him. 

However, she hadn’t returned to his flat since he had her, and although she gave him some weak explanation about how they were neighbors and that it would complicate their friendship, he didn’t quite buy into it. There was more she wasn’t telling him but considering there was a lot that he wasn’t sharing with her too. He decided to let sleeping dragons lie. 

“What kind of party?” 

She shrugged. “For Harry’s Birthday. Would you like to come?”

He grinned at her. “For Potter? He’s not really my type.”

She rolled her eyes and dropped her weaving to her lap. “Honestly, Draco,” she said reproachfully, but there was a mirthful lilt to her tone.

He sat back in his chair and templed his fingers against his lips as he watched her resume her weaving. He wanted to go to her party. Maybe as her date. As her bloke. He might be accepted by Potter and Weasley—well Potter at least unless he was a bleeding hypocrite. 

Draco hadn’t ever wanted to be someone’s bloke before, and honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he was ready to be Hermione’s. But he knew that he wanted her in all ways. It was just that he couldn’t promise her anything. He would try to explain it to her, and he was certain she would understand, but it still wouldn’t be enough. So, he gave her all he had. “I’ll try.”

The smile she gave him was blinding and wrapped him in ecstasy. He would nearly give her everything if she just kept looking at him like that.


	6. Part Six

[](https://imgur.com/geJMFGF)

He had been sleeping when he heard his name. It was sing-song and floated through the French doors and filled the Cerulean Room with her sweetness.

It pulled him into consciousness, and he sat up blinking, his ears straining to hear more than the sounds of the city.

Hermione stood at the threshold of the French doors. She wore an obsidian, slinky cocktail dress, her hair coiffed elaborately at the crown of her head and her feet bare. “You didn’t come to my party.” Her voice held no accusation, but instead she seemed to be offering explanation for her presence. 

He didn’t reply right away, just watched her as anticipation tickled his spine. 

She squinted at him and pouted. “I think—.” She glanced to her balcony. “It’s still going on.”

Standing, he began to stalk towards her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Like Felix Leiter tracking a bird. His voice sounded thick and gruff when he told her, “I can hear it.” 

And see it. Feel it. But it didn’t matter because she was here. Not over _there._ She was with him. Instead of with _them_

Her bottom lip wobbled as she shifted her weight. “You should have come, Malfoy. I was waiting for you. And it was fun and I dressed up. But you weren’t there and—” She leaned towards him, then, her eyes searching his face. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

She was too near, and he could smell the sugar of her skin and heat of her intensity. It wafted over him, fogging his senses. He could no longer hear the sounds of the world or her party. Only the lush lullaby of her breathing against the erratic pounding of his heart. He swallowed thickly, unable to take his eyes off her upturned face. “I think you are beautiful.”

She smiled pleasantly and licked her lips. “You do?”

Instantly his eyes flickered to her parted lips. Soft, pink and dewy, like petals. His stomach clenched with excitement as his breath hitched. “I want to kiss you.”

“Yeah?” She bit her lip provocatively and leaned farther to him. His emotions surged, jolting him into reaction, and he felt himself tipping toward her. 

Gods, yes. Of course, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be kissed by her. Draco Malfoy wanted nothing more in his life than to experience the magic in Hermione Granger’s kiss over and over endlessly. 

He gulped again, apprehension splashing over him, slightly cooling his lust. He really liked this witch, and he didn’t want to take advantage of her. He wasn’t that guy. “You said it was a mistake. That it could ruin our friendship.”

Her lashes fluttered seductively, and a coquettish smile spread across her face. “I didn’t think we were really friends, anyway.” 

He couldn’t say he disagreed, because they were _more_ than neighbors. They weren’t acquaintances or even enemies. They were a concept that transcended labels and terms and commitment. He didn’t want to analyze it now anyway, and he had the inclination that she wasn’t interested in exploring exactly what they were to each other. Instead, he reached out and yanked her over the threshold making her shriek in surprise. Then, quite edaciously, he crushed his lips against her lush, full mouth. 

As before, his soul lit up in a burst of colorful energy and thrill. His palms seared against the heat of her arms where he held her body against his. He felt like he could not get close enough to her. He wanted to absorb her into himself until she was a part of every fiber of his being. 

She pushed her tongue against his, lips demanding entrance and taking control. It was frightening and exhilarating to know that she—Hermione sodding Granger—wanted him. It was evident in the keenly clutching at his shoulders, her soulful humming into his mouth, and how she used her gorgeous body to force him backward to the bed. 

When he met it, he sat, and she fluidly fell into his lap to straddle him, but his hands had their own agenda, one squeezing at her lush bottom and the other sliding up her thigh to hook under her knee and pull her closer to where he wanted to feel her most.

She was burning him up in an electric blue flame turning all thoughts into mush, and soon he was acting instinctively, grabbing her hips and rolling her heated center hard against his cock. 

“Fuck.” He was in another dimension, like a metaphysical plane of pied lights. Where all he could feel was her soft hands in his hair, her pliant curves against his skin, and the incendiary lasciviousness of her mouth.

Hermione broke the kiss momentarily to reach between them and pulled the hem of her dress up her body and over her head. A few of her curls slipped out of their fastenings and he marveled at the wonder that she presented to him. However, before Draco had a moment more to appreciate the spectacle of her beauty, she pressed herself against him again and took another kiss. 

He was becoming dizzy, intoxicated by not only her kiss, but by the way her nails scored his skin. She was scorching him. He’d never been so turned on, so eager, so dangerously imbued with attraction. It was too much and never enough.

Using his forearm against the arch of her back, he pulled her closer and plunged his fingers into her hair to use as leverage to take control of their kiss. She moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, licking it up before crushing his lips against hers again. He wanted to wreak havoc until all her curls were tumbling around them and she was quivering, needful and ready to burst with desire for him. 

Sliding his palms down her back to her pert bottom, he found a surprise. “No knickers?” He breathed out against her lips and felt her smile.

Hermione pulled away, but only a fraction, and swiveled her hips mischievously, causing Draco to grunt appreciatively. “I told you I dressed for you.”

“Thank fuck,” he told her before he lifted her and flipped her to her back. The admission revved his libido, and his only intention was to devour her. Dropping to his knees, he slid his palms down her hips to her thighs and spread her open, preparing to feast. He paused, staring.

Hermione Granger had the prettiest bits he’d ever seen. Pink and swollen, glistening, and beckoning him into her.

He gulped, awed that such a gift was presented to him. He wanted to cherish her, explore every nook until he learned every secret. His gaze slid to find hers, dark and full of fervent anticipation. Without looking away he leisurely ran his tongue up her slit.

She hummed in approval and it only encouraged him to do it again, laving at her center languorously before sucking her clit into his mouth. 

Her hand came down and tangled into his hair and her back arched, his name falling from her lips. 

Pressing his face closer, he delved his tongue deeper into her, thrusting against her once, twice, before sliding it back to her clit and flicking it. Sweet Circe, she tasted fucking delicious. Citrusy and sweet, like bergamot. Like Hermione. It made him ravenous and delighted.

She was making the most exquisite sounds, and her breaths were coming quicker and more erratically. She was close and he wanted her to come undone. When he pressed a finger into her, she clamped down on it. Her thighs squeezed tightly around his head as he added another finger. And when he curled them within her, she cried out, her body wracking with tremors.

To see Hermione Granger come on his hand was a picture of splendor—all sparks of magenta and amber with explosions of song and rhapsody along the planes of her stomach, the curves of her breasts. The fluttering pulse at her clavicle. She was magic and exhilaration. 

Still, Draco wanted— _needed _more. He stood and quickly divested himself of his shorts while she took a moment to catch her breath. Carefully he climbed up her body, leaving little bubbles of kisses along the slope of her waist to the valley of her sternum until she welcomed his weight against her by wrapping her legs around his hips.__

__“Now, Draco,” she said as she arched her back causing her quim to press sweetly against his cock. Draco cursed and dropped his forehead against hers. She was so slick, and so searing, that he knew she was going to incinerate him. He couldn’t wait._ _

__He reached between them and lined himself up and shoved himself into her. Distantly, he thought he might have heard her gasp, but blinding white light erupted behind his eyes. It was like a velour vice squeezing every part of his cock. He nearly burst. “For the love of Merlin, Hermione.”_ _

__

__Her palms cradled his face in an unexpected show of tenderness, and she brought her lips to his in another searing kiss. Then she rotated her hips, encouraging him to move. He acquiesced and soon found a suitable rhythm. She moved with him gracefully, placing the sweetest kisses to his nose, his chin, his brows._ _

__

__It was too much. Too much stimulation. Too much emotion. Too fucking good and too fucking scary. Unintelligible words tumbled from his lips. Adoration for her and reassurance for himself. Nothing had ever felt like what he was experiencing. No other lover. No other moment. _Nothing._ He was bared to her in the rawest of ways and he felt she was offering herself in the same way. It was beautiful and savage and felt so perfectly _right.__ _

__They were lost to each other and there was no going back. Not to neighbors, not acquaintances, or even enemies._ _

__Soon, her movements became more erratic and her breaths shortened, and the splendor of it impressed her urgency upon him. He felt his balls draw up and he commanded her to come for him. With the sexiest cry, she shattered around him, her quim squeezing him in a vice. With a great groan, he buried his head in her shoulder and let himself go until all he saw was dazzling streaks of euphoria._ _

__

__When he returned to earth, she was holding him close to her and using her soft hands to soothe him as she left little petals of kisses against his brows._ _

__

__“Circe, woman,” he murmured against her shoulder. Reluctantly, he rolled off of her and was rewarded with a mournful squeak of loss from her. He smirked with satisfaction. His fucking ego was ten feet tall and nearly infallible._ _

__

__Moments passed while their breathing returned to normal. He wanted to reach for her, to cuddle into her as he floated along in his satisfaction, to anchor her to him, but he feared she’d run again. Dread began to bubble in his gut as he tried to decide what he should do next. Everything felt suddenly precarious. Like a hunter facing down his prey. Any wrong move and she could dart away._ _

__

__Eventually, he rose from the bed and retrieved a warm flannel to wipe away their mingling._ _

__

__She let him, watching him carefully as he tenderly cleaned her up. No shame or intention to cover up. He appreciated that about her and felt a surge of affection, of endearment. When he was finished, he met her gaze, and she bit her lip. “Come back to the party with me.”_ _

__

__He wanted to. He was tempted. He always was, but it wasn’t feasible. He just wasn’t capable. He knew he would disappoint her, but still, he shook his head. “I can’t._ _

__

__Her mouth thinned but she nodded with understanding. She began to rise from the mattress, but he reached out to her. “Please don’t go. Stay here with me.”_ _

__

__Her hair was in disarray and her eyes widened imperceptibly. She tilted her head and studied him carefully._ _

__

__Draco was as bare as he could be, naked not only physically, but emotionally too. “I want to be with you.”_ _

__

__She nodded then and offered her palm. He took it and joined her upon the bed, letting her snuggle her back against his chest. “For just a little while. I don’t have long.”_ _

__

__Draco kissed her shoulder and tugged her closer. “That’s all I need.”_ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__“I can’t believe you haven’t ever had popcorn,” Hermione exclaimed and tossed a kernel at Draco._ _

__

__He caught it in his mouth. “Well, if I had known it was this fun to eat, I would have tried it sooner. Kind of like you.” His grin was wolfish._ _

__

__Hermione threw her head back and laughed jollily. “Insatiable.”_ _

__

__He shrugged. It was true. He wanted her right now. And again immediately after. Then maybe for breakfast. Second breakfast. Elevenses.*_ _

__

__“Haven’t you ever been to a circus?” She drew up an inquisitive brow before throwing another piece._ _

__

__Draco missed. “That isn’t something Malfoys attended. It’s a Muggle spectacle, yeah?”_ _

__

__She nodded. “Barbaric things, actually. What about a fair? With the rides?”_ _

__

__He smirked incredulously. “Again, Malfoys wouldn’t debase themselves.”_ _

__

__She hummed. “We should go to one. Ferris wheels and bumper cars. They are thrilling. Ever tried cotton candy?”_ _

__

__Draco gave her an exasperated look._ _

__

__She giggled. “Of course, Malfoys would never.”_ _

__

__He tugged on her ankle, pulling her closer until her legs wrapped around him. “But I would for you.”_ _

__

__She smiled widely and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Right now?”_ _

__

__“Can’t. Busy at the moment. Maybe next Tuesday?” And he licked the column of her neck, while his hands pushed up at her breast._ _

__

__She pushed into his touch and dropped her palm to his cock. Curling her fingers around it through the fabric of his shorts, she spoke huskily. “Busy how?”_ _

__

__Tilting her chin up for a kiss, he told her, “Like this.”_ _

__

__And then he ravished her._ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__Hermione was reading to Draco from _Moonraker**_ as he traced letters into the skin of her thigh. Things such as _You are sexy. Kiss me,_ and _I like you._ _ _

__

__She was a good storyteller. Her voice evoked emotion and emoted the appropriate context. It was quite rhythmic. She even tried to use a horrible Scottish Accent when speaking 007’s lines._ _

__

__“Where did you get that horrid accent from? Bond isn’t Scottish,” asked Draco._ _

__

__“Well, Sean Connery was Scottish, and he’s my favorite Bond.” She was so entirely matter of fact, and her brows met as she peered at him skeptically._ _

__

__Draco shifted to face her better, her thigh moving over his chest. He could feel the heat of her against his shoulder. However, such thoughts were momentarily suspended because _what the sod was she talking about, favorite Bond?_ “There is only one Bond, Granger.”_ _

__

__“Oh, well, not in the Muggle films.” And her shoulders slumped at his perplexed expression. “Which, clearly you’ve never seen a James Bond movie of any sort.”_ _

__

__He didn’t even know what a movie was, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I can’t say that I have.”_ _

__

__Then she gestured to the lone shelf that lined his wall. “But you read Muggle fiction.”_ _

__

__Draco decided he wasn’t following her point and told her as much._ _

__

__Her eyes lit up and she sat up, her long curls making a curtain over them. “Oh Draco, you’d love the films. We should go see one. There is always a theater playing one somewhere in London. What do you say?”_ _

__

__She was peering at him hopefully, and he wished he could fulfill her request. He hated crushing her enthusiasm. Still, he swallowed thickly and playfully bit at her thigh. “Some other time, yeah?”_ _

__

__He pretended not to notice the expression of disappointment that crossed her features—and there was something else there, too: defeat, perhaps? It was then that he considered that she’d want more than he could offer her within the Cerulean Room._ _

__

__“It’s hard for me to go anywhere, Granger,” he told her solemnly._ _

__

__“I know,” she said softly, and pushed his hair from his forehead._ _

__

__He couldn't look her in the eye, so he busied himself by watching his finger trace the pink love-bite he’d left. “I will one day. I just need time. Then we can go everywhere you’d like. To the fair, see a film.” He turned his body to face her and let his palm slide to her plump arse. “Fuck, Granger, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I just need some time.”_ _

__

__A soft smile curved her mouth and her sepia eyes darted across his features. “I won’t stop asking.”_ _

__

__“Good.” He didn’t want her to, truly. One day he’d give in. When he was ready. He kissed her once more. As though he had lost and found her._ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__“C’mon mate, you are better than this. Wake up.” Blaise Zabini’s voice was gruff and pulled Draco from his slumber._ _

__

__The morning light poured in from the French doors and created a bright white aura around Zabini’s tall frame. “I’m awake, you wanker.” However, only barely. Draco felt around his blankets, but the mattress was cold where Hermione had lain the night before._ _

__

__“Just get up. Let's go do something,” his friend encouraged. His expression was grim but determined._ _

__

__“Where’s Hermione?” Draco murmured._ _

__

__Quickly he threw back the covers and hurried to throw open the balcony doors. There she was, in her kitchen, her body wrapped in that puce dressing gown as she moved around._ _

__

__Draco exhaled a breath of relief._ _

__

__Blaise came to stand beside him. “I just miss you. I know we aren’t supposed to express our feelings, but mate, this is no life. Tell me what I can do to help you leave this awful place?”_ _

__

__As Draco watched Hermione talk to Crookshanks and make two cups of tea, he decided to let his feelings out to the only person he trusted apart from her. “I won’t leave her. I—I think I fucking love her.” He turned to Zabini and searched his face for acceptance or revulsion. One never knew what they’d get with Blaise. He was a mystery._ _

__

__Zabini sighed deeply and shook his head. “I know, you wanker.”_ _

__

__Then he turned to Draco’s desk and plopped himself in the chair before his pipe. “Let me tell you about Brazil and this beautiful witch I met named Appollonia.”_ _

__

__The breath Draco didn’t realize he was holding left his body, and he sagged in relief. With a smirk, he crossed to the bed and dropped into it. “You remembered her name? Must be serious.”_ _

__

__“She hates my guts, of course, but that only made her more interesting. It’s always the one with fire in their eyes that gets to you, right?” Blaise took a deep draw of his pipe._ _

__

__“Tell me about it,” Draco murmured. As he listened to his friend relay the events of his adventure in Brazil, all Draco could think is that for the first time in too long, he felt happy._ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__Crookshanks laid upon the pillow above Hermione’s head doing what he did best: glaring at Draco with complete and unadulterated hate. The beast was a fickle creature, no doubt. Sometimes he kept Draco company while he worked the hours away on his typewriter. Other times it was very apparent that Crookshanks had planned a most terrible and painful death for Draco. Usually, it was after Draco had defiled Hermione with his lusty inclinations._ _

__

__Currently, she laid on her side, her palms tucked under her cheek as she told him about her parents. She was an only child too, which she guessed was why she loved spending so much time at the Weasleys. It felt full and happy. Like she belonged to something bigger. Something important._ _

__

__“I've never really felt that way before,” Draco told her as he tucked a curl behind her ear and used the pad of his thumb to trace the curve of her jaw. “But I feel that way with you.”_ _

__

__Her mouth parted, and something akin to sorrow flashed in her eyes as they began to water. “But Draco, this isn’t real. You’re going to come to your senses and you won’t even remember any of this. You won’t remember me.”_ _

__

__He smirked at her and tapped her nose. “Don’t be daft, Hermione. I’ll always remember you.” Then he reached for her and pulled her closer and let his mouth find hers in a slow, languorous kiss. “I promise,” he whispered against her lips._ _

__

__Her hot hands found his cheeks and he slid his arm under her before hefting her onto his chest._ _

__

__His kiss was deliberate and filled with all the promises he held in his heart. All the feelings he was afraid to say out loud. Without breaking it, he guided himself into her slick heat, and when she gasped, he let his ardent gaze search her face. “Do you feel me?”_ _

__

__She nodded, her rosy mouth pouting._ _

__

__“Then it is real.”_ _

__

__Because it was. It was the most tangible and true experience of his life._ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__Draco had forgotten what an angry Hermione looked like. Her curls seemed to coil tighter and take on a life of their own. Her rosy cheeks turned a vibrant persimmon, and those gorgeous brown eyes became lethal. “You can’t just say that to me and then refuse to leave!”_ _

__

__His hands were on his hips as he looked down on her, and he let his tongue trace the inside of his cheek. “I told you! I’m just not ready.”_ _

__

__“You are,” she cried and threw her hands up before spinning away from him. Then she tilted her head to the sky. “You said you weren’t afraid anymore. Besides, I’m just asking you to come over to my place for dinner.” Hermione turned back to him. “That’s not far, and it’s not in public, and if the anxiety becomes too much, you can just cross the alley back home.”_ _

__

__He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “It’s not that simple.”_ _

__

__“YES IT IS! You just don’t want to!”_ _

__

__“Bollocks!”_ _

__

__“Why? Why is it bollocks?”_ _

__

__“Because, I told you how I felt about you. And yeah, you didn’t say it back, which is fine, you’re not ready and I’m not forcing you, by the way.” It was a stake in his fucking heart, but he wouldn’t ever admit that to her. He wanted her love freely, not out of some twisted obligation._ _

__Draco rubbed aggressively at his face. He was so frustrated. “Knowing how I feel about you, then you should know that I want nothing more than to take you out and show you off. That I want to go and live inside your fucking flat forever. BUT I LITERALLY CAN’T.”_ _

__

__Tears poured down her face and she shook her head at him. Anger and discouragement pulsing from every atom of her being. “Yes, you can. You won’t.”_ _

__

__And then she pushed past him and ran down the stairs with a quickness he never expected._ _

__

__She just didn’t get it. Everything outside of the Cerulean Room was dangerous. He felt safe here. He belonged. And he was protected. Nothing could hurt him. He had all he needed anyway._ _

__

__But gods, he would like to see her under the lights of Piccadilly, and he would give anything to do all the adventures she suggested. Even popping over to her flat for a meal. It just wasn’t an option._ _

__

__He thought out of everybody, she’d understand._ _

__

__But when her apartment stayed shut for too many days, he supposed not._ _

__

__The disappointment he felt was suffocating._ _

__

__\- - -_ _

__

__She was screaming his name, and her voice broke with trepidation against the clatter as she ascended the fire escape in a hectic fury. He dropped his book and sprung from his bed, worry causing his heart to clench, and with his mind fueled with adrenaline, he was all action, no thought. He met her at the French doors, taking her arms and pulling her inside._ _

__

__Her face was tear-streaked and flushed, and there was panic in her big brown eyes. “Oh Draco.” She shook her head slightly, her curls barely tousling, and then she stepped into his comfort, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her cheek into his chest._ _

__

__“What is it?” he asked gruffly, tentatively rubbing his hands along her back and into her hair._ _

__

__“Crooks is gone.” She sniffed. “I’ve been trying to be patient but...” She exhaled raggedly. “I know he’s a tom-cat and prone to adventures due to his copulatory imperative. I mean—.”_ _

__

__“Hermione. Tell me what is going on.” He nudged her back and placed his palms on her shoulders._ _

__

__She tilted up her chin, and her bottom lip was quivering. “I haven’t seen Crookshanks in three days.”_ _

__

__“What do you mean?” he asked gruffly. But as he tried to recall, the last time he saw the cat was the afternoon of their argument. Thinning his lips, he peered at her again. “It’s going to be alright.”_ _

__

__Then he abandoned her and moved to the front door. His shoes were on his feet, wand in hand before he realized what he was doing. He was frightened, to be sure, and anxiety was prickling at his spine. But he loved her, and she loved that blasted shitebird. So he’d find the fucking beast and bring it to her. Then she would know that this was real. He could do this. He didn’t have to be a coward anymore._ _

__

__“What are you doing?” Hermione sniffed._ _

__

__He glanced at her. “I’ll find him.”_ _

__

__A watery smile broke across her face. “You mean it?”_ _

__

__He moved to her quickly and clasped her face in his hands, took her mouth in a hot, quick kiss. “I promise._ _

__

__And before he lost his nerve, he stormed toward the French doors and out to the balcony._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Stolen from Merry in Fellowship of the Ring as a little token of appreciation for Floorcoaster for all she does. Wear that crown with pride. 
> 
> ** A James Bond Book.


	7. Part Seven

[](https://i.imgur.com/qdw3lDu)

Hermione sat up, sputtering. The bitterness of the salty water in her mouth. Frantically she pushed to her knees and began to bang hectically on the doors of the Sensory Deprivation Chamber. “Blaise! Blaise!”

Suddenly, the white lights of the laboratory came into view, and Hermione winced at the brightness. Blaise Zabini appeared in her line of vision, instantly reaching towards her with concern drawing his black eyebrows together.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. It worked, Blaise. It worked!” She was clutching at his arms, pulling herself out of the chamber. “I have to go to him.”

She had never felt so panicked and yet also excited in her entire life. So many thoughts and feelings were running through her head that she barely registered the terry-cloth robe being draped over her shoulders. Her heart was in her throat, and yet somehow, it raged against her sternum so loudly that she was sure Blaise could hear it. 

“Stop, love.” Blaise was using the robe to dry Hermione’s arms.

“No, it worked!” she exclaimed as she shook her head with vehemence. “He’s awake. I just know it!” She pushed past him, letting the robe fall in her wake. As she headed for the laboratory’s door, she barely paused to pull on her trousers and shirt. It didn’t even matter that her hair fell in thick coils that soaked the silk of her blouse. She had one objective on her agenda. _Get to Draco._

“He doesn’t know,” Blaise reminded her. His long legs eating up the distance between them as he caught up with her. “If you go barging in there, it will only lead to confusion.”

The very thought stilled her movements and she peered up at him. “I just need to know, Blaise.”

Blaise smiled at her kindly and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I know. I’ll check in and give you an update.” He ducked his head until his dark brown eyes met hers. “It makes more sense for me to go, yeah?”  
She bit the inside of her lip. She wasn’t satisfied with that suggestion. In fact, she hated it. But she felt resolved. It was more logical for Blaise—Draco’s friend—to go to St. Mungo’s.

Taking a breath to calm her frazzled nerves, she accepted the robe from Blaise again. She nodded to let him know she heard him loud and clear.

“He left the blue room?” Blaise’s handsome face lit up with hope.

She smiled fondly, “It was Cerulean, actually.”

\- - -

“Tell it again from the beginning,” said the pinch-faced Healer from St. Mungo’s as she peered at Hermione from over her half-moon glasses.

Hermione fought to not expel an exasperated breath. She’d been through this four times already, although this was the first time with Hr. Carrington. Glancing at Blaise, Hermione hoped to convey her frustration. He only nodded in encouragement.

Hermione reached for her coffee mug and brought it to her chest and then, with all the aggravation she felt, she began to explain. “It began three months ago when Auror Malfoy was hit with an underground detonator device while on a secret operation for the Ministry. The damage done to his physical body was easily repaired by your extraordinary staff. However, your team could not coax him out of his coma. A close friend of his—”

“Mister Zabini?” Hr. Carrington interrupted.

“Yes,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. “He mentioned that the prognosis was vague and that the Healing staff feared he would never recover. He had heard of my, um—ah, _experiments._ I wrote a dissertation on why I believed muggle fringe science was actually magic. I had been wanting a chance to test my hypothesis, which was that with an emotional bond, a person could use their magic to astral project into another person’s subconscious.”

Hr. Carrington’s quill moved quickly over her parchment. “Hmm, but you needed the aid of an object, yes?”

Hermione nodded. “Correct. The Sensory Deprivation Chamber. It is an enclosed space filled with salt-water at body temperature. There is no sound, light, or scent, and one feels as though they are weightless.”

“You mentioned in your report that Muggles use this as a form of therapy,” inquired Hr. Carrington, raising an ultra-thin brow with skepticism.

“As means for rumination and relaxation, correct.” Hermione settled her forearms on the table and clasped both hands around a paper coffee cup. “I felt that a deeper state of meditation would allow for a deeper connection to the recipient.”

“You mentioned that your hypothesis was that it could only work if there was an emotional bond, but you claimed to have no relationship with Auror Malfoy. Correct?”

“We were acquainted from Hogwarts.” It was all she would offer. How could she explain that although he was often cruel and petty, she never felt more than pity and annoyance? And then what he and his mother had done for Harry—well, she just couldn’t find it in her heart to hate him. She’d actually come to respect him. Then over the years, hearing from Harry how much he’d changed…yeah, she had an emotional bond with him. The surprise had been that he clearly had felt one for her. Otherwise, she wasn’t sure that the experiment would have worked. Hermione expressed the last bit to Hr. Carrington.

“How can you be sure he felt an emotional connection to you?”

The blush that bloomed across Hermione’s cheeks and chest could not be contained. Dipping her head to hide her inflamed face, Hermione recalled the time Draco had watched her while she hung the laundry. His stare had been so intense and blatant that she had _felt_ it. It had been searing, and she had felt the prickles of goosebumps scatter her flesh under his scrutiny. She had relished the sensation of the throbbing in her most intimate parts.

She’d had no clue he desired her sexually. Any interaction they had shared prior to his accident had been formal and professional. Cold even. She’d had no inclination of his captivation for her.  
Hermione cleared her throat and took a sip of the coffee. “He flirted with me. It was obvious that he found me attractive.” Hermione felt that in regard to the interview, the details were immaterial. What she had included in the report was brief, clinical explanations of events because she felt scientifically obligated. It had never occurred to her that her heart was on the line until it was too late to stop what had ignited between them. It had spread like wildfire. She’d always known that they would end in ash.  


The nature of their relationship—not only the sexual, but the emotional too—had been morally grey, at least, in Hermione’s opinion. She had initially only meant to explore his feelings for her to lure him out. While she was aware of her actions in the experiment, he was an unconscious participant. Their experience in his subconscious had been different in that he may not remember their interactions as nothing more than a dream. It had been reality for her. Real experiences plus real conversations had equated in real feelings. When she made the decision to let their consciousnesses cross the line, she knew she was risking her funding, her career and her reputation as a reputable scientist. She would do it all again because it brought him from the coma so that he could live. Even without her.

“Please continue, Miss Granger.”

“My objective had been simple in the beginning. Mr. Zabini and I decided that although he shares a close friendship with Auror Malfoy, it would be more conducive for me to perform in the experiment considering my experience. Which we found was a correct assessment. Initially, I used my projection of my familiar—a feline domestic tabby that is part Kneazle named Crookshanks—to spy on Auror Malfoy and then, as myself, attempted to befriend him in an effort to lure him out of his subconscious.”

It had been a beautiful subconscious, honestly, but lonely and sparse. The melancholic aura had lured her, for she had always been a bleeding heart. She just hadn’t expected to return Draco’s attraction. She had forgotten how handsome he was: a bit tall with a lean figure, but not too lanky. He had beautiful hands with long fingers that met a strong palm and well-defined, veiny forearms. His hair was shorter than she ever remembered it being, but his eyes—they were the same stormy shade of silver they’d always been. And she had enjoyed watching them change from a shivering lonesomeness to a warm fulfillment as he fell in love with her.

It was strange to fall in love with someone that she hadn’t physically spent any time with, and yet, she was completely head over arse for Draco Malfoy.

It was heartbreaking that he would never know.

\- - -

It had been one week. Her report was written and submitted to the Wizengamot in hopes of being awarded funding for more research. Her interviews were over. Blaise had been absent. She had nothing left to distract her. So, she went to see _him._ Hope inflated with audacity and a false chipperness. She had rose-tinted fantasies of their reunion that even the logical part of her brain couldn’t call her back down to earth. Only it wasn’t anything like she imagined.

Draco was a bit thinner than his projection: paler and sallow, but otherwise he looked the same. Except the facial hair, perhaps. It suited him, though. She liked how it dusted across his jaw and upper lip. Her heart swelled as she recalled how those lips had felt. Touching her own, she lamented the fact that she hadn’t really felt them. Just the idea of them. Still though, it had felt real. The mind was interesting that way.

He had visitors: his father, Lucius, of course. Blaise Zabini, who lounged in the ward chair and had his feet kicked up on the edge of Draco’s hospital bed. What Hermione didn’t expect was Astoria Greengrass standing proudly beside Draco, her hands clasped demurely. She was tall and regal and seemed so proud. Her long honey-blonde hair perfectly styled at her shoulders. Astoria was stunning. "She was the standard of Pureblood Aristocracy.

Hermione glanced at herself. Her oversized jumper and skinny jeans seemed suddenly inappropriate. Her hair was wrangled into a messy plait that rested over her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of make-up. Still, though. He had looked at her like was the most beautiful witch he’d ever seen.

 _It wasn’t real!_ She reminded herself. It had felt real though. And that was the kicker. It had literally been all in their heads. Every touch, every kiss, every moment and every emotion their brains had manifested. But wasn’t that the way it was in real life? Those experiences still induced biological and chemical reactions that flooded the brain with hormones and neurotransmitters that brought forth feelings such as lust, affection, endearment. Love.

She loved him. That was real. And she missed him. So very much.

“Hermione, what are you doing?” Blaise’s deep baroque jerked her out of her reverie.

She smiled at him and turned up her face when he placed a kiss on her cheek. It wasn’t usual for Blaise to greet her so affectionately. “I thought I’d come see how—”

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low, nearly a whisper, and his head was still ducked toward her, his shoulders hunched inward, but his deep brown eyes were scanning the corridor.

Hermione’s brows furrowed and her mouth dropped open. It occurred to her that he was using his tall, large body to block her view of Draco, and a feeling of being unwelcome swam over her. “I just wanted to see him.”

Blaise sighed and straightened his frame while letting his palm cup her elbow. “You can’t.”

Rejection stabbed at her heart. “Because of Astoria?”

Confusion creased his face. “What? No. They haven’t been together for months.”

Relief flooded her. “Then what could possibly be the reason I can’t see him?” She shifted her weight, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of Draco. He was speaking to Lucius, but he was watching her and Blaise interact. Even from her distance, she could see the clamber of curiosity on Draco’s face.

Blaise followed her movements and hindered her view again. He threw his gaze to the ceiling and muttered a curse. When his gaze met hers, there was regret and sorrow. “I know how you feel, Hermione. But Draco…he doesn’t remember anything.”

The hope she had that he would remember their time together burst like a balloon and her heart dropped to the cheap laminate of the corridor only to shatter into countless tiny bits.

As she pushed away from Blaise, she could not stop the deluge of emotions that lumped in her throat or the large, silly crocodile tears that ran down her cheeks. When she glanced at Draco for the last time, their eyes met and his expression was twisted with a a frown.

\- - -

“My dear girl, what’s your worry?” Molly Weasley brought her hands to cup Hermione’s cheeks, her blue eyes searching for any answers that might be found in her features.

Reaching up to clasp Molly’s wrist, Hermione closed her eyes and leaned into the motherly touch. “Oh, I’ve done something terrible.” Then, like a breached levee, tears poured out.

Molly gathered her close and soothingly patted her hair. “Ssh, Duck. It can’t be that bad.” Then she led Hermione to have a seat at the long farm table. “Nothing we can’t sort out over a cup of tea.”

Hermione had come to Molly because she knew she could tell her the entire story with no judgement. She would have gone to her own mother, but Kelly Granger didn’t understand magic. She’d stumble over the facts and technicalities. She would try to use reason and logic to produce a solution, and that was not what Hermione wanted or needed. Besides, their relationship had never been close after she had Obliviated them to keep them safe.

“I know it's unreasonable, illogical, but I do. It felt so real. More real than anything I’d ever felt.” Hermione toyed with her spoon. “I’m silly, aren’t I?”

“No dear. Not at all.” Molly reached over and patted Hermione’s hand. “If it felt real, then it was real. If anything, it is more real because you fell in love with each other’s souls.”

Hermione drew in a shuddered breath and sniffled. “He doesn’t have any recollection. That’s what Blaise said.”

“That is the tragedy.” Molly’s expression softened with compassion. “But think of it like this, you fell in love. You were loved in return. And that in itself is a wonderful thing.” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and she gave Hermione’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

Hermione drew a deep breath and used her palm to push the tears off her cheek. “What am I going to do now?”

“Grieve. It’s all you can do.” She pushed the curls off Hermione’s face as she stood. “Now. Help me set the table. The kids will be in soon, starving from their Quidditch scrimmage.”

Little did Hermione know, Pansy Parkinson overheard the entire exchange.

\- - -

Hermione loved to organize. And she loved to dance. Often, on Saturdays, she would twirl around her little home in Shabbington as she tidied up. Crooks, who was an old man these days, would lounge in the spots of sun he could find and watch her make a complete fool of herself.

“Do you know that most decorators suggest that you should color code? It's supposed to be easier to keep organized yet aesthetically pleasing,” Hermione told Crooks as she stacked her books in piles according to colors. She’d probably change her mind by next Saturday, but that was typical. Although, she did like sorting her clothes by color. She found that made choosing attire easier in the morning.

Her doorbell rang, and since she was expecting Harry to drop off some reports she’d promised to proofread for him, she was confused as to why he didn’t just come through the Floo as normal.

“Honesty, Harry—” she began as she pulled open her front door.

Only it wasn’t Harry. It was Draco.

His face was clean-shaven and a bit fuller since the last time she saw him at St. Mungo’s. His hair appeared tousled, as though he had run his hands through it more than a few times, and the apprehension that pulsed from his being suggested that he’d been on her porch longer than she suspected.

Despite that, he looked well and fine. More than fine. Dashing, really, in a casual grey jumper over a light grey oxford with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Her heart clenched. 

And she knew she must look a fright—her hair in a haphazard bun atop her head, wearing sleep shorts and a cut-up t-shirt with bleach stains while she stood before him, mouth agape and eyes wide with disbelief.

Still, he let his mysterious grey eyes travel from her bare legs up the curve of her hips, flashing briefly on her chest before settling on her mouth.

He slowly rolled his tongue across his bottom lip. It was sinful.

“Draco,” she whispered. Trepidation made her clutch the door for support.

His gaze flickered to hers and he swallowed thickly. Then without any preamble, he stepped towards her, gathered her to him and kissed her.

Instantly, her heart swelled with relief and she clutched the collar of his shirt, because she wanted—no, _needed_ —him closer. He desperately licked into her mouth, acquainting himself with the feel of her, and she opened to him, let him take anything he wanted. Her heart was his to do with as he wished. Cherish it, nurture it—crush it if he felt so inclined. She didn’t care because he was here. Finally. In flesh and bone and blood. She was dizzy and aroused and felt the urgent need to pull him into her. To get closer than was physically possible. He groaned and his hand squeezed at her bottom. She hummed and he stumbled forward, pressing her against the jam of her door. Accidentally, she knocked her skull against it and the surprise caused her to break the kiss.

Draco rested his forehead against hers, his eyes peering deep into her soul as his chest rose and fell with heavy exhalations. “I remember you,” he told her gruffly.

She gasped. “You do?”

“I promised,” he said but then his expression darkened. He let his knuckle graze her cheek. “You saved me.”

Hermione let her lashes fall. “I’m sorry I tricked you,” she admitted and tried to tuck her chin with shame.

He wouldn’t let her, instead tipping her face to his again and pressing a sweet kiss on her nose. “I’m not.”

She grinned then.

He cocked his head to the side and his silver eyes squinted at her. “Do you love me, Granger?”

Tears stung her eyes and she nodded. “Yes.” A laugh fell from her lips. “Yes. I _really_ love you.”

A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips. “Good. Now let me in.” He took her hand and moved into her home.  
He barely had both feet on the ornate rug in her foyer when he was met with Crookshanks standing guard. “If it isn’t Felix Leiter. How are you, old boy?”

Draco crouched down and offered his palm.

To Hermione’s surprise, Crooks rose from his haunches and ran his jaw down Draco’s fingers, nuzzling. Then he wound his tail around Draco’s forearm while Draco scratched the underside of Crookshanks’ chin. “Looking a little grey there, mate?”

Then Draco peered up to Hermione who was still in a state of awe. Crooks didn’t like anyone like this. “Quick gawking at us and go get dressed. We have a busy day.”

Confusion quirked her brows. “We do?”

“Yes.” He rose until he stood over her and took her face in his palms. He gave her a slow, sensual kiss that felt more like yearning. “- We are going to the fair.” He kissed her again. “Then to see a James Bond film. We need to get coffee and browse a bookstore.” Another sweet kiss. “Then I’m going to bring you home and fuck you.”

She giggled, tears falling down her cheeks. He really remembered and she was just so grateful. “Home?”

He nodded. “That’s wherever you are.”

She agreed and led him to her bedroom.

It was painted Cerulean. Properly administered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, lovies. Call it a comeback, but this story has haunted me for ten plus years. I have more to ideas to share and I look forward to welcoming familiar names but also getting to know new ones. 
> 
> I want to thank floorcoaster for luring me back to fandom and inadaze22 for gently cheerleading us both on. Thank you to dreamsofdramione for the beautiful graphics and I am thankful I found another soul sister. Kiwi, Andrea, Casey---thank you for being on my writing team.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank Floorcoaster and Inadaze22 for your encouragement and cheerleading to bring me back to the wonderful world of fanfiction. A special shout out to K Writes Dramione for the beautiful graphic and for Floor for the excellent beta.
> 
> Playlist:  
> Feeling Whitney– Post Malone  
> Hysteria - Def Leppard  
> Like A Stone - Audioslave  
> Existentialism on Prom Night - Straylight Run  
> Redbone - Childish Gambino  
> Can’t Take My Eyes off You - Craymer & Aiivawn  
> Sunday Best - Surfaces  
> This Feeling - Alabama Shakes  
> Iris - Goo Goo Dolls  
> People are Strange - The Doors  
> The Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World


End file.
